Comfort Food
by sara-cupcaked
Summary: Everyone has a vice, their own way to relax. He didn't know how he could have missed hers.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** A three part story, this first part has no spoilers. All mistakes are mine.  
Disclaimer: I'm just borrowing them, okay?

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**Comfort Food**

He didn't know how he could have missed it.

He sometimes saw the crinkled blue and white packaging under discarded paper and fruit skins, but he never gave it a second thought. He never suspected the empty glasses that littered their place after every difficult case, drained of its original contents – leaving behind a thin sheen of white and black specks at the bottom of the glass.

He however, noticed that there were many more glasses involved after any case with hints domestic abuse.

"Do you want one?" She asked, noticing him staring. She was standing by the counter, an Oreo cookie in hand and an almost empty packet in the other.

He shook his head, settling down on the couch wearily. "I don't like the taste."

She nodded, nibbling on a new one. They were still in the clothes they wore from the lab – him in a plain Oxford tee and slacks, her in a grey blouse and pants. It was three brutal shifts, and still they couldn't find enough evidence to pin it on the abusive husband.

He watched her as she absent-mindedly reached for another cookie, her eyes staring out the window. She dipped it effortlessly in a glass of milk by her side, and started chewing daintily.

It was mesmerizing; he had never seen anyone eat with such grace.

It took two more dips with two new cookies, and she was done with her first packet.

They had been home ten minutes, tops.

She reached up to the cupboard and pulled out two new packets. Why hadn't he seen them before? After opening the packet swiftly, she sat on the counter and bit into one after dipping it into a refilled glass of milk, her long legs dangling off the side.

"Are you sure eating that many all at once is healthy?" He asked, eyes widening as she opened her third packet.

"Everyone has a way to relax, right? You ride roller coasters, I indulge in Oreos."

"Sorry, I didn't want to sound judgmental."

She looked up and gave him a small smile; her teeth still a bright white, miraculously spared by the sticky, black cookie goo, like she was born to eat them. "It's okay."

Several more minutes passed, and she was almost at the end of the third pack. He concluded that the more she talked, the fewer cookies she would consume, lowing the risk of diabetes thus preventing her premature death by chocolate biscuits.

"Why Oreos?"

She stopped chewing, and mused.

"Did your mom give you any Oreos when you were little?"

"Yeah, but I disliked it even then."

She laughed, finishing the milk and leaving tiny black crumbs at the end of the cup. "I can't imagine a little boy not wanting any cookies."

He smiled, his first since arriving home.

"My mom would give me one, after every fight my father and her had. Which meant I'd get _at least_ three a week. I would eat it, feeling like that girl in that Oreo advertisement – the one where a little girl eats the cookie staring out her  
backyard, watching her dad wash the car, her dog playing in the grass and her mum gardening, with the sun beaming down everyone? I thought if I ate enough, my life would be like that. Ever since I was seven, Oreos have been my comfort food, and in a sense, a source of hope."

She picked out the second last cookie (not that he was counting or anything), observing it.

"Old habits die hard, I guess."

He didn't know what to say, much less look her in the eye – all the years he had known her, today was the first time he had bothered to ask?

She slid off the table, and walked up to him. "Lets go."

"Where?"

"New York New York."

"Sara, we just got back."

"Exactly."

He stared at her, and she stared back.

Can one suffer from an overdose of Oreos?

Symptoms: bright eyes, small smile, disorganized thinking.

She sighed, sitting down next to him.

"You don't understand. You need to relax."

"Who says I'm stressed?"

"It's obvious." She said gently, and he knew she was right. It was as though she could sense whenever he had a bad headache coming, like a sixth sense.

She placed a palm on his arm, the warmth comforting.

"I can bring Oreos to me, but I can't bring the Manhattan Express to you." She whispered, so close; he could smell the Oreos on her breath.

Sweet icing.

Creamy milk.

Chocolate.

Suddenly, he didn't feel like leaving the room, much less the couch, even though she smelled of a biscuit he hated.

He leaned in to kiss her, tasting Oreo and flinched slightly. To him, it tasted so sweet it was like an instant toothache disguised in the form of an innocent cookie. It didn't help with its saccharine sweet aftertaste either.

After a few minutes of oxygen deprivation, she pulled away. "I'm serious Gil. Let's get going."

"I thought you hate riding roller coasters?"

"I thought you hate the taste of Oreos?"

"I do," he answered patiently.

"Then why'd you kiss me?"

"Because I love you." He said automatically.

"Me too, that's why we're going."

He sighed. "You never give up, do you?"

"You should know." She answered coyly.

"At least let me change first," he said in a defeated tone, shaking his head lightly at her but smiling slightly.

She nodded and smiled her oh-so bright smile as he made his way to the bedroom, the same one that made his heart skip a beat way back then.

As he walked out wearing more suitable clothes, he caught her sitting on the counter once more, twisting the top of the cookie off expertly. He stood there hidden by the bedroom door, watching her without wanting to disturb her.

She ran her tongue slowly down the creamy white icing, and he could imagine her as a little girl, doing the exact same thing as she stared out the window with the Californian sunshine beaming down.

She replaced the top gently, and dipped it gracefully in the milk, holding it there for half a second before biting off the milk-soaked part. He watched her silently eat away the remainder of the biscuit with a faraway look in her eye that made his heart ache slightly.

Just as silently, she stuffed the empty packet into the trashcan and deposited the glass into the dishwasher, the look in her eye gone.

Turning around, she caught him standing there. "Ready?"

He nodded and grabbed the car keys. Watching her twist, lick and dunk the Oreo made his head spin, the main reason he rode roller coasters. That same sensation that could make anything on his mind disappear, even for three glorious seconds.

They walked out of the apartment, her hand in his, and he couldn't resist stopping midway down the car park to kiss her lightly, the night sky glittering above them.

Unsurprisingly he tasted Oreos again, but this time, he didn't mind it. He was surprised, because usually, once his mind was made up, nothing could change it.

Sara, the exception.

He couldn't help but ask after he pulled away to catch his breath.

"Why'd you twist, lick and dunk that last cookie?"

She looked at him, her body pressed up against his chest, before turning her eyes upwards towards the stars.

"It made me feel like I was in some sort of exclusive club then – a club where kids twisted, licked and dunked their cookies. No matter how far they lived, down my block or halfway around the world, we all were united by the way we ate our cookie. It made me feel like I was never alone."

He didn't know what made him tear up – her heartbreaking confession or that bittersweet smile on her face.

Sara_, always_ the exception.

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**A/N2:** I had a serious Oreo craving while writing this. And to think I was inspired by a line from Gossip Girl #7 Nobody Does It Better. Did you like it? Dislike it? Know how I can improve? Review away :)


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: All mistakes are mine. Thanks for the reviews, I hope you enjoy this next chapter.  
Disclaimer: CSI is not mine, unfortunately.

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"Aren't you sleeping yet?" She asked as a greeting, and he could almost see her turn to glance at the clock.

11.34 pm.

"Aren't you?" He replied, smiling.

She laughed over the line, sounding like she was right beside him instead of five hundred and seventy miles away. She called him on Mondays, Thursdays and Sundays, while he called her on Wednesdays and Saturdays.

"Anything interesting happen at work today?" She asked, a crumbling sound on her side coming through the receiver along with her voice.

"The usual." He answered with a sigh. The usual meant that Greg was still pretty angry with him, Catherine was being as nosy as ever, Warrick was getting more and more reclusive, Nick was still being Nick, and Brass was just as concerned about her as everyone else.

Sara sighed sympathetically somewhere in San Francisco.

"So how are you?" He asked this time, staring at the ceiling of the bedroom. The fan was on the slowest speed, casting long shadows across the room.

He heard the crumbling again, as well as the solid thump of a glass making contact with a table. "I went to see my father's grave."

He tensed, sitting up from the bed. "How was it?" He asked softly.

Crinkling over the line this time, sounding like interference.

"It wasn't that bad. I'm only on my fourth packet of Oreos. The last time I went, I nearly OD-ed on them."

"What time did you go?"

"7."

Four hours, and four packets of Oreos. A vast improvement for Sara, whom he knew could practically inhale them when she was stressed.

"And that last packet was Mini Oreos too," she said. "Less likely to give me diabetes," she added with a laugh.

"Are you still eating the mini ones now?"

"Nope. But the first few packs were those Double Stuff ones."

He rolled his eyes, relaxing back down onto the cool bed sheets. They were Sara's favourite ones – the 400 thread-count ones made from Egyptian cotton.

"I'm not eating any now." She said, her voice soft.

"Why's that?"

"Cause I'm talking to you." She answered with a smile in her voice, making his heart beat a little faster. He smiled, feeling the happiness fill him up, barely registering that ache in his heart.

"I love you Sara."

"Me too. So, so much."

"'If I had a single flower for every time I think about you, I could walk forever in my garden.'" He said, closing his eyes briefly.

"My quote of the day?"

"Not a quote, the truth."

He listened to her steady breaths over the phone, so close yet so far. After several minutes of listening to each other's breathing, she was the first one to speak.

"12.17 am. It's Sunday already."

"You better get to bed."

"Yeah."

He paused.

"Goodnight, Sara."

"I miss you, Gil."

"I love you." They say together, like each and every night.

He placed the phone down and stared at the shadows that flittered in and out of his line of vision, haunting him.

A few hundred miles away, she reached for an extra large packet of Double Stuff Oreos and started the twist-lick-dunk ritual, all while staring out at the dark, dark night.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** This is the last and final part of Comfort Food. Thanks for all those who have been reading it since the first part :)  
Disclaimer: I do not own any characters written below.

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The ride back was silent, but he knew they had a lot of talk about.

Too much.

She was looking out the window, her eyes taking in the blurred lights. There was nothing as beautiful, or tacky, as the strip casinos. He could almost feel her memories cloud the air, staining his vision and gripping his heart in a vice.

Who knew the reason she was to return to Vegas was for a funeral?

She turned to him and whispered quietly. "I missed you, this, everything."

He nodded but couldn't find the right words, and the car was silent once more.

--

She stood by the door frame, inhaling deeply. Nothing else in the world smelt quite like Grissom's apartment – a comforting blend of citrus and old books. Every night in San Francisco she would grip her pillow tightly and press her face into it, because it smelt like this.

He walked past her and right to the fridge, pulling out a large bottle of water. He poured it halfway to the rim and handed her the glass silently, and she thanked him. Everything felt to familiar, but different and unnerving at the same time. Like the first time she stared into the mirror after her 'incident', and could barely recognize the person staring right back at her, the blue and black and red spread all over her face.

It made her feel like tearing up.

Well, maybe more than just the _feeling_ of tearing up, because the next thing she knew, she had tears running down her face, salty tears falling and mixing with the filtered cold water.

Before she knew it, the glass was taken from her hand and his arms were around her, just like at the lab hours ago. He held onto her, the warmth of his arms welcoming, with her face buried in his shirt.

He gently guided her to the couch, the one she had spent countless hours lazing around on, and draped her favourite cream afghan blanket over her shoulders. She tucked her head in the blanket as he sat down next to her, rubbing her back in a circular motion till her tears stopped.

The next moment, his palm was off her back, and he was gone. She just sat there trying to sift through her emotions the way the therapist had advised her to, keeping her eyes shut and her face buried in the soft blanket.

She heard him return by the sound of his approaching footsteps, and she lifted her head to apologize for the number one thing on her list of things-to-apologize-for.

"Gil, about the letter, I re-"

Her mouth fell open slightly as she caught sight at what he had laid on the coffee table.

Blue and white packages greeted her, all of different Oreo variations. Mini Oreos, Double Stuff Oreos, and original Oreos sat there in their respective packaging. She counted _at least_ twenty packets. He even had a bottle of milk by the corner, complete with two mugs.

"I bought a packet every time I missed you," he explained. "But eating them was out of question, I still dislike the taste. I also stocked up after telling you about Warrick."

She smiled, but felt herself tear up again.

He sat down next to her and picked up a pack.

"Original?"

She nodded, and he opened the packet easily. Gathering the mugs in his hands and setting them down on the table, he poured the milk right up to the rim.

He picked up one, and twisted the cookie open, before licking the thin white circle swiftly.

"I thought you don't like them," she said questioningly, sipping the warm milk, tasting a tinge of honey in it.

"I thought you might like the company. Besides, you always follow me on the Manhattan Express…"

He replaced the cookie top on, but instead of eating it, he offered it to her. She accepted it, and dipped it quickly into the warm milk before biting in. It tasted better than all those ones she had spent eating alone in her apartment in San Francisco. Better than the ones she had when she was younger, staring out at the sun.

She finished it hungrily and looked into his eyes, her watery brown ones reflecting in his bright blue.

"Thank you," she said sincerely, wondering if it was possible to love him more than she already did.

"It's okay." He replied, kissing her forehead.

It was.

They spent the rest of the night on the couch; him twisting, licking and dunking the cookies for her, her resting against his chest and devouring countless cookies, watching the tiny crumbs fall onto the shiny wooden floor, all while talking about everything and nothing at all.


End file.
